Shaking
by LadyTeldra
Summary: Oneshot: There was a reason he wore heavy armor at all times. A reason for the thick fur on his shoulders. A reason he no longer trained with his men personally. He was a man with an addiction, his withdrawal was killing him. (Freeform)


**Author's Note:** Honestly? This just came to mind and stuck. Thank (or curse?) the Headians.

Also, I should warn that it's just a quick write and upload, took less than an hour during my Macro Economics class. Sorry professor...

 **Summary:** There was a reason he wore heavy armor at all times. A reason for the thick fur on his shoulders. A reason he no longer trained with his men personally. He was a man with an addiction, his withdrawal was killing him.

 **Disclaimer:** If I owned Dragon Age, this wouldn't be here and I'd own a llama farm in Iceland. Or maybe alpacas...

* * *

 **Shaking**

* * *

Fear clouds his mind. Fear of death, fear of loss, fear of failure. He fears what it does to him, this addiction, this ending. He fears his thoughts and actions his very being for he knows not what is him and what is it.

His mind goes to the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, to Meredith. He thinks of the insanity that befell her. He thinks to Samson and his dependence, his loss of morals for lyrium. He looks to himself and sees possibility. The chance that he too could end as they.

It is not merely the mental strain that scares him. He can feel it. Feel it ravaging his body, turning it against him in want, in need.

Cold emanates from his very bones. A chill nothing can chase. He hides it the best he can as his very blood burns through his veins. An extra layer beneath heavy metal, it goes unnoticed as he his body burns away fat and muscle. Some fur around his shoulders, it keeps the chill of his neck from the cold metal. Next to the others, a little eccentricity goes unnoticed.

He shakes and shivers, his body straining. The thick armor hides much of it. His hands can be hidden. Under desks, behind backs, waving about so extra notice is not paid. When all else fails, a rub to the neck distracts eyes back to his face.

He tells the Inquisitor of the addiction, she deserves to know after Haven and it may affect the choices she needs to make. In the back of his mind, he hopes she'll remove him from duty then. At the same time, he hopes she trusts him enough not to. That she'll support his decision, or call him foolish. He no longer knows what he feels about it.

His reflexes have slowed. Thoughts take longer to process, conversation is easy, among even friends it can be passed as a few seconds of thought. Among fighters it is fatal. He does not offer to travel with the Inquisitor, nor with the soldiers. He passes it off as needing to direct others. He no longer trains with the templars, not even with the fresh recruits. Not knowing if he'll be fast enough, strong enough, to block another's blow. He grits his teeth in frustration as in the safety of his quarter's a sword tumbles from his fingers, a shield no longer an option.

He no longer eats as he should. His appetite has left him. Few notice, but none realize how far he's gone. A little overworked he pleads. He sees Cole, hears Cole every now and then, but he is not the only one to help and little help can be given. Some bread here and there, a warm bowl of soup, a word to others. Other's bring food as well, but it is too rich for his pallet now and goes untouched more often than not.

It's worse. Nightmares haunt his sleep nightly. A haze covers his mind. Terrors affect even the waking hours and he knows not how to stop them. He is unsure what is real and not and attempts to ignore the stranger aspects around him.

When Cassandra speaks to him and he does not reply, she worries. When he finally looks up and blinks, she believes he was merely lost in thought and moves on, repeating the report from mere moments before.

When soon after he goes to her and begs her to remove him from duty she wonders, but argues against it. She doesn't know how far he's gone. But he is persistent, and she considers.

When the Inquisitor walks in, he fears she'll think less of him. He fears she'll ask him to return to the lyrium and he doesn't know if he'd resist. When she doesn't, he doesn't know whether to be thankful or disappointed. When she pleads for him to stay, he cannot deny her.

The Inquisitor pursues him, and he does not resist. He is playing with fire, but near her his head seems to clear. It has been months since his feelings have been distinguishable.

He fears hurting her. But he kisses her anyways.

He makes a greater attempt at living. His body still hurts, his trembles persist, and his appetite doesn't return, but he eats more and begins some simple warm ups. It barely helps.

Her touches send tingles up his spine, it soothes the burning of his blood and eases the constant aches. He cannot let her go.

He is ashamed when she sees him without the armor. She wanders into his quarters after a long mission without warning. Nothing is said, but she climbs into bed and hugs him close. Not completely understanding, but still supporting, still knowing.

Their relationship continues, blooms, flourishes. When Wicked Grace is played, easy flirts pass between them, but he no longer bets clothing. She is the only one to know.

He nearly loses her. His anchor, his love. She had returned bloodied. His mage. An enemy had gotten past the others, struck her with a blade before she could cast. Not much rest was gained that night as they confirmed the other was still there.

He took up his blade again to teach her to block faster though it slipped from his grasp still.

They never directly bring up his addiction, he had warned her of the risks. Even as his weight continues to drop and the shaking gets worse. He can see the regret in her eyes, sense her barely restrained desire to request him to take the lyrium once more. But she doesn't and he is thankful.

At Adamant he fears, he curses and prays.

 _She's gone. Gone. He's failed. His fault. His fault. Everything he does wrong. So wrong. Why? Stronger? If he were stronger? Gone._

She returns, but one less companion is at her side. Her eyes are heavy, the weight of the world doubled on her shoulders.

He feels terrible, but all he can be is grateful. _Not her. Not her, she's still with me._

They give themselves to each other that night, the close call cutting deep. He doesn't last nearly as long as he once would, but it's enough.

The end comes and the world rends. Corpheus falls at the Inquisitor's hand and they rejoice.

He stands by his Inquisitor, his lover, his friend. He stands by her and though he shakes as his body fails him there is hope. He may not survive the lyrium, but there is hope for the world if not for himself. He knows that the Inquisitor will keep trying though.

And maybe, just maybe, the woman who saved the world, who saved his heart, can save his body as well.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So, originally, I was going to have him die at the end, but I realized that would be mean of me. I think I preferred the sad ending, but we'll offer some hope instead.

But, like I said, just a quick story, not a great one. Hopefully someone enjoys it though.


End file.
